The slowest citizens of Pompeii…

Last week, the fallen leaves retuned to their maker, or at least a close relative. Dried clumps gathered in the nooks of the lowest branches, blackened with rot and caked in mud and silt. They seem to cling as they did before, but in a more grotesque fashion. Frozen in time and place, like the slowest citizens of Pompeii. All swept in the same eastward direction, as if they were being dragged out to sea against their will, which they were. Twisted casualties in no man’s war, yet still witness to violent forces beyond their control. Mere innocent bystanders in God’s cruel games. Perhaps they were locals. More likely, they were strangers in a melting pot of victimhood. Separated by miles and months, maybe even years, until brought together here in their new hanging mass grave by cruel, yet completely natural, circumstances. Though twisted in death and seemingly fused together in the moment, new life will soon erase the carcasses. Even on this frozen bank, the virile scent of spring is on the air. The squatters will be evicted by the indifference of incessant newborns, pushed out of the way and returned to the watery grave from whence they came.

[42nd Street Island, RVA]